The Adam and Eve
by CreativeWords
Summary: The first time Sally Donovan met Sherlock Holmes, she was searching for some normalcy. Part of series of one-shots featuring the first time secondary characters met Sherlock. See my profile for others. Please R&R!


I don't come to the Adam and Eve when I want to get drunk. The boys in the division have a sports bar right around the corner where we all go when we need to left off steam from a case. I like to come here when I want to forget that I'm with the Metropolitan police at all. Just a little pub, average food, overpriced pints. Couples meet here after work, office workers who like the quiet, visitors to London who come in because it's "so charming." Just a typical little pub. Everything _normal_.

So today, after tramping around a back alley with a decapitated body in a dumpster, I come to the Adam and Eve, pay too much for a pint and sip it in the corner, watching the knots of suited workers and the couples on dates. Pretending that I'm just one of them before I head back to the office to review evidence.

Patricia Worthington, just 22, no family left. A perfect target for a psycho killer who likes chopping people up, I suppose. There's no point in telling myself not to think about it, but I try to focus on the tourists who are talking too loudly just a few tables over. Apparently they saw the Tower today. Most important thing that's happened all day for you, isn't it? Bloody normalcy.

"You look like you could use some company."

He sneaked up on me. The part of my brain that's still a detective sergeant says that he's bad news just for that fact. I did notice him when he walked in the door a few minutes ago: dark hair, taller than most, skinny enough to make a girl self-conscious. And now that he's closer, I'm noticing the sharp cheekbones and pale eyes. I can't really call him attractive, but he's not bad to look at. And right now, he's smiling at me.

"I came here to be alone."

"But you didn't know I'd be here."

He sets his own pint down and proceeds to pull out the other chair. I wish I'd thought to do what a normal woman would do when headed to a pub and freshen up my make-up. But he's right: I didn't know he'd be here. I tug on my cuffs to de-emphasize the wrinkles on my sleeves, and straighten my posture.

"Did I say you could sit down?"

"No, I just saved you the trouble," he says, giving a flash of a smile again and leaning over the table. "Now, let's see. I'm guessing – accountant."

I laugh, just the right amount of sarcasm and enjoyment, I think. "Not even close."

He frowns for a moment. "Teacher."

"Nope. Detective Sergeant, Scotland Yard. Is that the best you can do?"

For just a moment, his whole face changes. The smile stops hovering on his lips and the entire bottom half of his features hardens. His eyes darken a bit, too. "No, actually," he says quietly.

I lean back, but the moment has already gone. He's smiling again, whole body relaxed. "You're a woman of action, then. A clever woman. I like that."

He's got that part right. There's something… just a bit off about this one. Why do the weirdos always seem to find me? I'm not interested in getting involved with someone I'll end up investigating one day.

"I don't suppose you've got somewhere you need to be?" I ask, putting up my best bored face.

"Nowhere but here," he says, smiling. "My name's Sherlock, by the way. Sherlock Holmes. And yours?"

I can't resist. "Sherlock? Pissed your mum off that fast, eh?"

He laughs with me, and I can't deny, it's a nice sound.

"You should hear what she named my brother."

A first name can't hurt, I suppose. "I'm Sally."

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere."

He's pleased. I wish I could tell myself I'm not. But I come here for normalcy, and what could be more normal than meeting a bloke in a pub? Beats spending the night in the office looking at photos of a headless body.

"Tell me about you," I say, settling back. "What do you do all day?"

We talk at least an hour. He buys the second round. He's a consultant for security companies, just off a job in Downing Street. He's fascinating to listen to, but he keeps turning the conversation back to me. My work, what I see each day, how I deal with the demands of the job. He's impressed when I tell him that it's just a matter of deciding that justice is more important than… well, anything else. It's nice to be able to say it. Most lads are scared off by the title "Detective Sergeant" and we don't talk about it that way around the Yard. People think you've gone soft if you do.

"Now take the murder we found today. Awful thing – girl with her head clean off stuffed in the Poland Street alley rubbish bin." Somewhere in the back of my head, I'm sensing that this is getting too chatty, that DI Lestrade would be furious if he knew I was blabbing about all this, but that just makes it more fun. And Sherlock is staring at me so intently, you'd think I was the only person in the world.

"How long had she been there?" He asks.

"Best we can tell, since late Friday or Saturday."

He _tsks_ his sympathy at that. "And not a single person even bothered to report her missing."

"No, there was a report filed, but we get calls about missing girls almost every weekend, and most of them turn up at home Sunday night completely knackered and unable to remember much past the first drink Friday night."

"Who filed it?"

"Her flatmate – Saturday around noon. She's the one who came to ID the body – what there was of it. She said the girl didn't come home after work. She thought she'd spent the night with her boyfriend, but she wasn't answering her phone, and neither was he."

"Ah, so the boyfriend did it." He's shaking his head as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Sad business. What's London coming to?"

"Well, we'd like to think so, but he says she never showed Friday, and he was at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital from 11:45 Friday night on. His brother had a stroke and the man's got an army of doctors and nurses confirming he was there."

Sherlock leans forward a bit at that, cocking his head. "Really?" I catch a flash of that dark intensity in his eyes again, but then it's gone and he's shrugging. "Ah, well, so much for my big solution. I don't suppose she had a butler, did she?"

He's chuckling, and I catch myself chuckling back. "Well, _she_ certainly didn't." Her flatmate comes from a pile of money, but that's hardly relevant.

Sherlock sits still for a moment, staring at his pint as if he'd forgot it was in his hand. When he looks up, there's a gleam in his eyes. "Want to catch a late film together?"

"Oh, I really ought to get back to work. I've got piles of evidence to sort through, and the sooner the better." I'm protesting with about an ounce of willpower. There are days when devotion to the job just doesn't cut it.

His whole face falls for a moment. "Well, I wouldn't want to stand in the way of justice, now would I?" He pulls out his mobile. "Any chance of getting a number from you?"

I should say no and walk away. But he looks… disappointed, and I can't remember the last time a man was interested enough to be disappointed when I tried the brush-off. I wait long enough to see a touch of uncertainty in his eyes before rattling off the number and standing.

"Nice meeting you, Sherlock," I say, unable to control the grin at the name. "Call me sometime so I have your number." Heaven knows I'd do something embarrassing if I got it now, like attempt flirting by phone or worse, ask him out before he asks me.

I've only made it about a block when my mobile chirps. A text.

**Enjoyed the drinks. Still disappointed about that film. Happy detecting. SH**

The smile carries me almost all the way to the conference room where the evidence has been collected, but I set my face back to business mode in case Anderson or one of the others stayed to review evidence. I can't decide if I'm annoyed or pleased when I realize no one else is here. Fine way to work a murder investigation.

I pull on gloves and lay out the diagram of the alley. The bag she was found in will be in one of the first boxes.

_Chirp._

**Don't suppose you'd like a bite of supper. I haven't eaten yet. SH**

He's persistent, this one, but I can't possibly say yes now. That'd just tell him I'm eager. And I'm not.

**Sorry, I've just got my work gloves on. No food for a while. Donovan.**

I realize after I've sent it that my default signature is my last name. So much for being mysterious.

**DS Donovan. I'm saving that as your contact name. Let me know if you change your mind about the food. SH**

I set the phone aside, still grinning stupidly, and turn my mind to the case.

After almost an hour of examining the bag (heavy duty, the type you'd find in a commercial kitchen), the map of the neighborhood (not posh, by any means, the kind of place you'd expect to find rowdies and petty criminals), and reading the reports from Patricia's flatmate, boyfriend and employer, I'm convinced it's a random killing. She was well liked, worked hard, had few debts, and generally kept herself out of the path of trouble. Of course, that means we've got a psycho on the loose in London, but that's the way it goes some days.

The door opens. I turn, expecting Lestrade or Dimmock, but instead find Sherlock Holmes standing there with two take away bags and that smile.

Maybe it's because I've got murder on my mind, but I can't be entirely pleased he's here. "How on earth did you get in? Building's locked up for the night."

"I'm a security consultant," he reminds me.

"Yeah, but –"

"I brought Thai food, more than enough to share. So, what have we here?" he asks, setting the take away on a chair and leaning over the photographs I have spread out. "Bit ugly, isn't it?"

Now I'm definitely not pleased. "A bit? I think having her bloody head cut off is more than a bit ugly."

"No, I meant this one."

He picks up a photo of her right hand and points. The nails are painted a rather staring shade of pink – the kind of color that's trying too hard to be trendy. A bit out of character, based on what we know of her, but…

"This is hardly the time to complaining about her style."

He stares at me as if _I'm_ the daft one. "You don't see? Look closer!"

I ought to be calling Phillips, the on-duty, but instead I lean over the photograph with him, studying it for whatever he's noticed. "It's smeared."

"Yes! And?"

I look again, then reach for the photograph of her left hand. "Both hands are." There's something important about that, something my brain is trying to put together. "As if-"

"As if she'd used her hands to defend herself while the polish was still drying." He raises his hands in a defensive position. "The right index and middle fingers have barely any actual polish left on them, just the residual color."

"There will be skin scrapings under those nails." I say quietly. "I'll call the coroners."

"They'll have seen to that," he says dismissively. "A decapitated body? They'll be thorough. They always are in the cases that least need it. My point is a bit more direct."

"And that is?"

He grinds his teeth and looks away, obviously frustrated. Well, that makes two of us, then. And I still haven't called Phillips and can't think of one good reason why.

"Are you in the habit of wandering about alleyways with wet polish on your nails, DS Donovan?" He asks, his voice slow and calm in an obviously forced way.

"No, but when I get my nails done –" I stop, realizing. He starts smiling again. "She was attacked while she got her nails done."

"Exactly. Now, let's add what else we know," he says, shuffling through the papers on the table. "She was found in a rubbish bin in an alley off Poland Street, behind a chip shop. She hadn't been seen since she left work Friday afternoon, on her way to a date, so we can assume that the manicure was planned. The color of polish suggests a cheap manicurist. Not the type a girl like her would go to more than once. So either she's randomly chosen a new one, or she's acting on a recommendation from someone. Coworker? Flatmate? Time will tell, but my money is on flatmate. Interesting girl, by the way, who can positively ID a three-day-old headless corpse as the girl she's been sharing a flat with for about six months, according to this statement." He waves the paper in front of me. "And add to that –"

"Nothing."

We both spin around at the voice. DI Lestrade is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, glaring at Sherlock. Sherlock, on the other hand, seems to suddenly deflate.

"I told you not until −" Lestrade says.

"Which is why I didn't come to you," Sherlock cuts him off airily. "DS Donovan and I were getting on just fine."

"I didn't –" I start, but can't finish. Lestrade has his eyebrows raised and I have a feeling that I'm in for hell from him as soon as Sherlock leaves.

"Are you clean?"

For a moment, I think he's talking to me, and I'm ready to rip him one for even thinking such a thing, but then I realize he's still looking at Sherlock. There's a moment's hesitation before he nods.

"I don't buy it. Could you pass a drugs test? Tonight? Right now?"

"I'm not impaired in anyway, Lestrade, I assure you." Sherlock says, his voice quiet, and somehow dangerous.

"Not what I asked."

I can't handle it any longer. "So you two know each other? Is that how he got in here?"

Sherlock and Lestrade both shift their focus to me, a rather unnerving sensation. Lestrade glances as Sherlock, then decides to do the talking. "He's a bit of an amateur detective. He's helped out on a couple of investigations, but I told him he had to stay away unless he could kick a certain habit."

"You won't stand by it," Sherlock mutters.

"Won't I?"

"As soon as you get in over your head, you'll come begging."

"Get out." I've never heard Lestrade sound as if he'd like to use his Heckler & Koch MP5SF on someone, but I spare a glance to be sure he's not wearing his holster.

Sherlock puts the paper back on the corner of the table and glances at me. The signs are there, now I bother to look. The extreme prominence of his cheekbones. The bags under his eyes. Those sudden mood changes. Should have gone by my first instinct and told him to clear out back at the Adam and Eve.

"It's been a pleasure. Keep at it, DS Donovan, and you might have a future at this."

I think of about a dozen profanities to throw at him, but settle for cold silence. He raises his eyebrows, but shrugs and turns to the doorway.

"Till tomorrow, Lestrade," he says, edging past him. "Ask Donovan about the manicurist if you want a few leads to go on until then."

"Out!"

I turn back to the photographs, but of course I can't focus on anything except those fingernails. He saw it in seconds. I wonder what he could have done with more time. But then I think of all that smooth talk at the pub. Freak. He _would_ pick my one normal place.

"Keep walking!" I hear Lestrade behind me. "Come back when you can pass the test. And Donovan –"

I turn on my heel, pure business. "Yes, sir?"

Lestrade sighs. "Fill me in on the manicurist, won't you?"


End file.
